Look After Your Brother
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: It's been his number one charge all his life...but that's not why Dean does it.


**Look After Your Brother**  
K Hanna Korossy

Even though Dean was nine going on forty, he wouldn't know the meaning of "pedophile" for some time. Still, he'd been trained by a hunter, he'd looked out for threats to Sammy all the little boy's life, and Dean has good instincts, his dad said so.

And all his instincts were telling him right now that that man was looking at Sammy _wrong._

"Sammy." He had to track the kid up to the middle of a suspension bridge at the top of the playground set. "Come on, we gotta go home."

"One more minute, Dean?" Sammy had no real concept of time, but he'd learned fast to plead for extensions…over and over until his brother got fed up. "Please?"

That usually worked, but not today. The man was still sitting on the bench, his eyes not following his kid around like all the other parents', just staying fixed on them. On Sammy. Dean narrowed his gaze and shook his head, turning back to his brother. "No, we gotta go. It's dinnertime—you want mac 'n cheese, right?"

"Yay, macencheese!" Sammy was suddenly all compliance, bouncing on the bridge a couple of times as he slipped his hand into Dean's and followed him down to the ground.

Dean held on tight, one eye on Sammy, one on the man. His stomach tightened and he felt a little shaky when they stepped off the mulch into the grass and the man got up and started to trail after them.

They were only a block from the motel where they were staying right now, close enough that Dad didn't mind them going to the playground as long as Dean kept careful watch. And he had, he did, but knowing there was a threat and dealing with it were two different things. Dad had said to come to him if somebody scared them, but Dad wouldn't be home until that evening, holed up in the library looking up stuff.

Dean quickened their steps, trying not to sound impatient when Sammy lagged behind, chattering and looking at everything.

"C'mon, squirt, we gotta get home. I'm hungry."

That seemed to work; Sammy always wanted to please his big brother. He picked up his steps, only to slow again a dozen feet later to look at the dog barking behind a house's big fence. "Dean, what kinda—?"

The man had started moving faster, glancing up and down the street, and Dean's heart leaped into his throat, knowing they'd run out of time. There was no way they were going to out-race a grown-up, especially not with Sammy's little legs and hundred questions, so Dean quickly looked around and settled on the next best thing. He picked Sammy up under the arms and dashed with him to the nearest house with lights on and a car in the driveway, immediately ringing the doorbell.

The man slowed, then stopped, watching them even as Sammy asked, "Who lives here, Dean?"

The lady in the house was nice and thought they were adorable, totally buying Dean's line about getting lost on the way home from the playground. She called Dad and fed them cookies and milk while they waited to be picked up. And Dad's face lost its look of stern disappointment when Dean told him later that night why he'd involved _civilians. _His dad just grabbed him and held him tight, so maybe Dean did the right thing.

He kept an eye out for the man the next day but didn't see him again, and they moved soon after that.

00000

"Do we have any more bologna?"

Dean swallowed his sigh; it wasn't like Sam was being a brat about wanting to eat. The kid was only eleven, hadn't even hit his growth spurt yet and was skinny as a rifle barrel, but he could put away more than Dean these days and always seemed hungry. He was old enough to know now that sometimes they didn't have a lot of food, however, and to accept that.

Dean just hated that he had to.

"Nope, think you inhaled the last one, dude," he answered offhandedly. "But I'm gonna go pick up some stuff for dinner soon, okay?"

Sammy studied him, eyebrows raised. "Dad left more money?"

They'd never actually been in danger of starvation, but sometimes Dad maybe forgot they weren't little kids anymore and the food money had to be stretched. Which Dean had gotten good at. And at lying. "There's a little left," he promised.

Sam smiled at him, dimples and all. "Can we get some spaghetti?"

"Yeah, sure," Dean answered, nodding, and glanced out the window. "Almost stopped raining. You keep working on your homework and I'll be back soon, okay?"

"Okay. Be careful."

Dean grinned at him. "That's my middle name, Sammy." His grin only widened at Sam's eye roll, and he reached for his jacket.

His jacket with the totally empty pockets.

Okay, so, he could steal the food, he thought as he walked down the street. Wouldn't be too hard to get away with a package of pasta and a jar of sauce. But Dean liked the old couple who ran the neighborhood market, and the thought of stealing from them left him squirming in discomfort. He could try to find a job again, Dad's orders notwithstanding—he did have superceding orders to look after Sam, after all—but that wouldn't help tonight. Ditto with the old lady across the street who'd offered to pay him to mow her lawn. Dean had even collected a few rewards for tracking down local thieves and dealers for police tip hotlines in previous towns, using the skills he'd learned from Dad, but there hadn't been time to feel out things in this neighborhood yet. They paid for recycling in this state; maybe he could collect enough discarded bottles and cans to add up to dinner…

He was still debating when he got to the market and saw sixty-some year-old Mr. Danby sweating over moving a couple of boxes of canned goods into his store.

Bingo.

An hour later, Dean had a totally legit bag of groceries in his arms and an invitation to come back the next day for more work in exchange for foodstuffs. No paperwork, no background check, not really a formal job; he wasn't even going against his dad. And now they had not only pasta and sauce for dinner, but frozen garlic bread and a salad and a half-gallon of milk, too. Sammy would be in heaven.

His little brother eyed him a couple of times during the meal like he suspected something, but he didn't ask why Dean had taken so long, or where he went the next day. But he whined a little less about Dad after that, and never complained about the food Dean served. And he grew, like, an inch over the next month of good, plentiful food before they moved again.

In all, it was better than any paycheck Dean could have gotten.

00000

One minute they were crossing the fast moving water over the fallen tree, following the trail Dad had left for them. The next, a thick branch under Sam's foot gave way and he was tumbling off, a gangly seventeen-year-old with a kid's wide, frightened eyes that caught Dean's gaze a moment before going tail-first into the water.

Dean didn't even think, just jumped in after him.

They hadn't been roped together; it had looked like a completely safe crossing. And maybe that wasn't a bad thing considering that Sam was still trying to orient himself in his surprised fall, while Dean had gone from a controlled jump to slicing through the water after him. He was almost within reaching distance when he saw Sam's back slam up against a jut of rocks. His movements suddenly became sluggish and bewildered.

Spitting a curse into the white water, Dean dove after him.

Sam arched a little when Dean snagged him around the ribs and yanked him close, spine to chest. His bruised back had to be killing him, but there was no time to be gentle. Dean held him tight and started to paddle them toward the shore, trying to move with the current as much as possible.

It took a lot of time and energy, and Sam's body shivering and spasming and sometimes coming to confused life wasn't helping. Dean had to bark in his ear a few times, "Sam, relax!" before the kid would subside again. He coughed out water and groaned whenever a wave shoved him against Dean.

By the time their feet could anchor in the silty riverbank, Sam had stopped fighting and just clung to Dean's arm. His legs tangled as they climbed out, and Dean ended up dragging him partway up the land, too, but that didn't matter. Sam's eyes were clear and his body was responding and he could breathe without choking and spitting up river water. Long as he stayed breathing, Dean didn't even care if the kid kept digging his fingertips into Dean's arm or curled up shivering against his big brother's body.

"I'm gonna call Dad, get him to pick us up, okay?" he asked Sam quietly. Their radios were waterproof for just such emergencies.

Sam's head shook, hair plastered against his skull. "I c-c'n keep going, D-dean."

"Sammy, he's not gonna be mad, I promise. It was an accident."

"D-disappointed," Sam shivered out.

"Don't worry about that," Dean pressed softly, although it was possible he would be. The tension between Sam and their dad was growing, and Dean tried to deflect it as much as he could but it was getting harder and harder. "I'll tell him what happened."  
Sam didn't answer, just lay there with teeth chattering, forehead pressed against the wet denim of Dean's jeans, body sometimes wriggling a little as his back complained.

It was cold enough that Sam could go hypothermic in wet clothes, and his back needed to be properly checked. Dean laid a hand on the wet crown of Sam's head as he dug out their radio and called in. Maybe Sam didn't like it, but Dean had to think of his well-being first.

And if Dad tried to give him grief, well, there were other ways Dean looked out for Sam, too.

00000

He really thought they'd been doing well. Sam had been into the case that day, Dean was sure of it, and had even dug willingly into the chicken pot pies Dean had scored from the tiny diner tucked in between two fast food chains down the street.

So it was with surprised dismay that Dean looked up from his last bite to see Sam laboring halfway through the pie, twin tears dropping into the aluminum pan.

It wasn't the first time Sam had spontaneously started grieving, and unfortunately probably wouldn't be the last. Dean quickly looked away to give him some privacy, turning his eyes if not his attention back to Jeopardy playing on the TV.

Total silence from next to him, except for the sound of the plastic spoon scraping metal as Sam tried to keep eating.

Dean chanced a glance over again after a moment, saw the shine of the tear tracks, the drops continuing to miserably fall, sometimes hanging off Sam's chin or nose for a moment. At this rate, his dinner would soon be salty mush.

Dean reached over and plucked the plate out of Sam's hand, setting it aside before slinging an arm around his brother's shoulders and pulling Sam over. Then he went back to watching the TV.

Somewhere around the final round, the damp, snotty patch on his t-shirt stopped growing, and Sam reached up to paw at his face, tastefully snorting phlegm back.

Dean grabbed a handful of napkins from the bag and shoved them at his brother, then took the pot pie and set it in front of Sam again. Six-foot-four needed a lot of food to keep it going, and Jessica's death had already carved too much of Sam away.

A minute later, the kid started eating once more.

At the end of the show, Sam dragged himself off the bed, dug out a clean t-shirt from Dean's duffel and tossed it to him, then shuffled into the bathroom.

And he managed to get Sam through yet another day.

00000

The Gulon growled at Dean, a clear admonition to _move. _

Dean growled back, a just as clear _screw you._

Sam just panted softly in pain behind him.

"You okay back there?" Dean called over one shoulder, never taking his eyes off the beast. The claws were wicked sharp, and the thing was known for insatiable hunger, as evidenced by the string of mangled corpses it had left in its wake. Sam had to be really tempting, down and injured and trapped, but the Gulon clearly wasn't sure about this obstacle between it and its meal.

"Not…really," Sam groaned.

"Don't move," Dean ordered. The last thing they needed was for the sharp sliver of wood impaling Sam's side to jostle and do even more damage.

Sam muttered something probably wiseass and then whined a sound of pain that made Dean's shoulders tighten.

The Gulon shifted to the right, checking for weak spots in Dean's defenses. Dean moved with it, hand flexing around his knife. You didn't need a special weapon to kill a Gulon, but the thing had knocked his gun away and there was no way Dean was moving from that spot to go retrieve it.

"Sammy?"

"Still here." It was a whisper, weak with pain but lucid enough to steady Dean's nerves a little.

His eyes narrowed at the hovering Gulon, predator facing down predator. "So, ugly, your move."

"Better be…talkin' to…Gulon," Sam forced out behind him.

Dean snorted a laugh, then readied himself as he saw the Gulon coil for an attack.

He used close-quarters fighting even though they were out in the middle of nowhere, not letting the creature move him from his defensive half-circle in front of Sam. It made for some tricky maneuvering, but Gulons weren't known for cleverness or skill, merely hunger and brute force, and Dean could defend against that even with the limitation of staying between it and Sam. There was one close shave with the claws where it was duck or be skewered, but that just left the creature open for a quick stab up into its gut. A twist of the knife and the thing was dead, blue blood smoking on Dean's knife.

He stood a moment over it, breathing hard, making sure it was a doornail. Sam's hand fumbling for his ankle was what brought him around and down to his knees.

"Dead?" Sam murmured, face pasty white.

"Maggot food," Dean confirmed, resting a hand flat on Sam's chest, inches from the bloody splinter that pinned him to the ground. "You ready to get out of here?"

Sam's hand hovered over the sliver, then pulled at Dean's wrist. "Gonna…need some…help."

Dean shifted, keeping his own body between his brother's and the sight of the downed threat. "Take it easy, dude. I've got it," he promised quietly, and leaned in to get to work.

00000

Sam was addicted to demon blood. Could do things no human Dean had ever seen do. Had been lying and going behind his back. Chose to trust a demon over him. And had nearly killed him in a no-holds-barred fight, hands tight around Dean's neck, before walking out on Dean's desperate final ultimatum, leaving him bloody and broken on the floor.

The pain of loss, of betrayal and hurt, was unfathomable.

He'd lost himself in it for a while, gave himself up to it because he'd bottomed out of hope, strength, or the will to fight. What was left when your whole life's purpose was gone? Not just left, but turned on you?

So Dean had bled and mourned and quit.

And then Bobby had kicked him out of his despair.

It had always been Dad's number one order: look after your brother. It was also one of the few things Dean remembered Mom telling him. It was the prime directive of his life almost since he could remember. But obedience had never been why he'd watched out for Sam.

He just loved the kid. With every molecule of his being, not for anything Sam did or said, not because Sam was always loveable. Simply because he was _Sam. _

Sometimes it'd been selfish love, like bringing him back from the dead. Sometimes it was complete sacrifice, sending him off to school with Dean's blessing. In some way, though, every choice revolved around Sam. And Dean had been a better man for it; Sam's mere existence had brought out the good in Dean and saved his soul from a life of pure killing and vengeance.

Dean's pain had eclipsed that love briefly but hadn't eliminated it. Nothing would, not Sam himself. Not even Dean. He still loved his little brother, and would—_needed to_—save him, even if from himself.

He looked down at the slim cell phone he'd been turning in his fingers. Bobby had said reaching out to Sam was about not being a coward, and in a way he was right. Because the rejection Dean was risking with this one last overture, the pain he was opening himself up to, could do him in for good. He wouldn't give up on Sam, but that didn't mean he wouldn't crash and burn trying.

_Look after your brother. _That was the true Winchester gospel, and Dean could no more ignore it than he could stop breathing.

"Screw it," Dean finally muttered, opening the phone and calling the first number in his speed dial.

He'd figure out later where that left him and what was left of him, once his brother was safe.

**The End**


End file.
